


Your Secret

by harryswilde



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Blushing, Gay Romance, Hamlet references, Harry Styles - Freeform, Historical AU, Historical Romance, Kissing, Louis Tomlinson - Freeform, M/M, Making Out, Original Characters - Freeform, Pride and Prejudice References, Romance, Secrets, Victorian, Victorian era, handjobs, harry edward styles, historical gay romance, history au, larry stylinson - Freeform, lots of oscar wilde quotes, mentions of domestic abuse, so many the picture of dorian gray quotes, the picture of dorian gray - Freeform, two idiots falling in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23861122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryswilde/pseuds/harryswilde
Summary: “The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.”- Oscar WildeFalling in love with Harry is as easy as breathing; his lips taste like honey, his hair is of the most pristine hazelnut color and Louis adores making those sweet cheeks of his blush. But not everything about him is as perfect as it seems, and Louis learns that even the people we love most may harbor demons they can’t control on their own.Disclaimer: The story is set in Victorian London, but some of the places are fictional.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

London, April 1892

“Do you think my ass crack is too visible in those pants?”

“Jesus Christ, Louis”

I look back at Mary over my shoulder to see her hide her face in embarrassment. 

“I’m just asking. Is it or is it not?”

A loose button on my collar momentarily distracts me and I don’t notice her drawing closer to me before I feel a powerful whack across the back of my head.  
I yelp, and it comes out pitched more like that of a school girl’s rather than that of a 19 year old young mans.  
Blinking at her dumbfoundedly, I rub the sore spot on the back of my head.

“That’s what you get for being a vulgar twat”, she scolds and has to suppress a smile as she takes on the seemingly impossible task of closing the uppermost button on my collar. Through the stern look on her eyes sparkles a glint of mischief, her not so secret impish streak peaking through.

The blinding morning sun streams in through the tall windows and makes her positively gleam. I have to admit, with her wild unruly locks and her freckled rosy cheeks, she resembles more the picture of a female Huckleberry Finn than that of a tamely housemaid. 

She finishes buttoning me up and takes a step back to admire her work. Clutching her chest, she gives a dramatic sigh. 

“Dear God Louis, when did you grow up so much? Just yesterday you were a snotty little brat and now look at you; all handsome and dressed up like a proper young gentleman.”

“Oh stop it”, I say, feeling my cheeks heating. 

We both flinch as the sharp ring of a bell sounds and Mary sighs, heading toward the door. Before she leaves, she slaps my butt through the tight dress pants and flashes me a playful smile.  
The room seems instantly colder, despite the sun working hard to heat it up. That’s the thing about Mary, she’s the epitome of a motherly presence, gleaming and warm and comforting. I love her dearly, but I would never call her a substitute for my own late mother. She’s more of an older sister to me, pulling pranks with me and smacking my butt for as long as I can remember. 

I chuckle as I look at my behind in the mirror, clad tightly in black wool. When my gaze reaches the top of my body the reminiscent expression on my face dissipates and I have to do my best to suppress a gag.  
Okay, I do end up gagging out loud, since I remember that Mary, my father and I are the only residents in this house and no one would be able to hear my obvious display of self-deprecation anyway. 

I put a hand to my hair trying to fix it, but it falls right back into the disastrous state I always find it in: Brown, tangly and unflattering. 

All in all, it looks a bit like I’ve just crawled out of a sewer. Panic rises in me and for the next few minutes I’m desperately clawing at it, fighting a battle I know I’m going to lose eventually.

“The beast calls for you”

I whip around and see Mary smiling at me from the door. When exactly did she come back? It doesn’t matter because I can already feel myself tensing. 

The beast is my father, and apparently he’s calling for me, most likely because of the luncheon we’ll attend later this afternoon, the one I’ve been dressing myself up all morning for.

“Oh dear God”, I sigh and with a last damning glance I part from the ghastly reflection of my hair. 

“Just get it over with, Louis. You’ll feel much more relieved after”, Mary says softly and offers me an apologetic smile.  
She must sense that I’m upset for she puts a gentle hand to my shoulder and for a moment I lean into it, enjoying the comfort of her touch.  
With each passing second a dreadful feeling coiled deep in my stomach starts to unravel and even though I wish I could say it were petulant anger, I know from the growing tightness around my throat it’s probably fear. 

“Wish me luck”, I murmur and have to force myself to leave Mary’s warm presence behind me. The distance to the stairs is short, a dissonant creak sounds at every step I take.

As I reach the top of the stairs I brace myself against the handrail and take a deep breath. I let my gaze wander, over the walls plastered with pale, old tapestry that’s started to come off in some places. Most of the paintings that used to hang them, and almost every gilded piece of furniture we owned we had to sell due to my father’s gambling addiction.

It’s always funny to me when he goes on and on about how I’m the source of all his problems, when I know about the horrendous sums of money he’s lost us. Night after night he used to come home piss drunk, reeking of alcohol and wasting all our money. 

Now there’s the anger, boiling deep inside me and I push myself off the railing. His room is to my left and I enter it after a deep breath. 

As usual, he’s at his desk, writing away at some document I know exactly is only further proof of his inability to lead a business.  
“We sell you dazzling and breathtaking wear for every occasion” my ass.  
We’ve been barely scraping by, our factories producing products of only minimal quality. 

All my father is capable of is lying and deceiving and I’ve sworn to myself that I will never follow in his footsteps. If the moment ever comes when I inherit the business, I’ll sell it immediately. It disgusts me to think how people are mistreated and abused in factories just like ours. 

What I want in life is to relieve pain and suffering, not cause more misfortune by exploiting the poorest group of our society. I want to be a poet so I can enchant people and pull them into worlds free of the grim terrors that tether them to this reality. To capture true beauty in words, that is my life’s aim and I’ve known it ever since I’ve been barely able to hold a quill in my hand. 

I want to be a poet and nothing else. 

Of course when I proposed that idea to my dear father I left his office with a stinging imprint of his palm on my cheek. Even though it wasn’t at all the first time he’d beat me, my face burned hot all night and it was at that point that I knew I would never give up. I would pursue my dream, however many beatings and humiliation I would have to take. 

Thanks to my father the money for my planned stay at Oxford is currently in the bottom drawer of some night club.  
The luncheon we’ll have later is to appease whatever criminally rich upper class twerp might be present so we can start making decent money again, enough to enhance working conditions for our labourers and enough to find me a place at Oxford.  
I swear it’s only because of that promise I made to myself I’m still enduring my father’s iron fist. 

“I’m here father”, I say through gritted teeth.

He looks up, musters me through dirty glasses and gives me the same derogatory glance as always.

“You look hideous, Louis. Have you forgotten what I’ve told you about how important proper presentation is?”, he says and it takes everything in me to calm my laboured breathing. I clench my fists so hard I’m sure they must be going white.

“Of course I haven’t forgotten it father. This suit is actually one of my finest. Mary and I spent all morning fixing it up and I think she’s mentioned once that it actually used to be one of your own”, I say cunningly, knowing full-well how much it will rile him up. 

“That damned woman never knows when it’s best to shut the hell up.” Father stands up abruptly, making the chair scrape against the floor.

“Louis, come over here”, he heaves, beckoning me over. I do as he says, fighting a primordial instinct that tells me to run, run from this man and hide somewhere safe where he’ll never find me again.

Once I’m close enough he takes me by my collar and yanks me up so that my face is only centimeters away from his. 

“You know how important the luncheon with the Styles is to me, don’t you”, he says, breath reeking of alcohol and cigarettes. As I don’t answer he yanks me again, more forcefully this time.

“Answer me when I ask a question you god-forsaken brat. Do you or do you not know how important this luncheon is?”  
I nod and try not to meet his eyes. I absolutely cannot look him in the eyes because I’m sure if I did the tears would fall and then he’d slap me again and call me a coward, or a cry baby.

“Then let me tell you this one thing: If you dare to fuck this up for me, I will not hesitate to throw you out on the street. Do you hear me? If you fuck this up and I don’t get that money it’s all over for you, you will take all your baggage and get the fuck out of here so I will never have to see your ratty, bloodsucking ass again. Do you understand me?”

“Yes father”

He pushes me and I stumble back, landing flat on my bottom.

A dry chuckle sounds from the direction of my father and I can hear him sit back down at his desk.

“Dismissed”

When I’ve closed the door to his office I begin dry-heaving, only now noticing that I’d been holding my breath. I stumble forward, into my room that is right next to his office and my legs give out underneath me.

My face is wet and I feel so ashamed, so goddamn ashamed of the tears because once again I’ve let my father get under my skin, let him make me cry and prove him right once more: That I’m nothing but a bloodsucking leech, a hindrance, a problem one had to get rid of before one could pursue one’s happiness.  
It’s hard to describe just how deep the anger toward my father reaches, just how intensely it’s burning in me. In this moment however, it’s someone else I hate more. Someone I thought I knew well but seem to know nothing about truly, someone who sits and cowers instead of owning up to his resolve, who cries and flees and blames others for his misery when he’s the one lacking the guts to stand and fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hii :)
> 
> This is the first chapter to my new fic, and Louis will meet Harry in the next chapter :)  
> I hope this wasn't too intense. Please do leave a Kudo if you liked it because they always make me so happy, and if you have any criticism, don't hesitate to leave me a comment so I can know what to do better!  
> I love getting feedback :)  
> Thank you so much for reading, have fun with the next chapter and have a lovely day! <3


	2. Chapter 2

The world flits by behind the stained window of the cab, the hustle and bustle of midday London reduced to a passing blur of colours. The even patter of hooves against paving stones is so familiar I can feel myself relaxing slowly.

It’s best not to think about the things that happen between my father and I, to simply acknowledge them as they are and lock them away into the deepest, darkest parts of my conscience so they don’t have the chance to affect me anymore. Even though my father now sits opposite of me, the atmosphere doesn’t feel any tenser than usual. What happened earlier has already occured so many times before, it’s almost like a routine by now.

Mary had found me cowering on the floor of my room and hugged me tightly, whispering reassuring words. She’d helped me clean up and make myself look presentable, so no one would ever get the idea I could have been crying less than an hour ago. It’s all about looks anyway in this society, what’s inside you doesn’t matter, as long as your reputation and your attire are immaculate.

I already know this luncheon will be filled with the same formal greetings and pretentious conversations as they always are but still; there’s also a hint of curiosity in me.  
It’d been a while since I’ve set foot into the mansion of a proper upper class family and Lord knows these kind of places tend to look like the Gods themselves carved them out of pure marble and silver. The poet in me can’t wait to suck it all up and write about it at night, pouring all the beauty into a couple of stanzas. 

When we arrive, a butler is already waiting to open the cab door for us. We get out and I mutter my thanks, while my father is paying for the ride. 

My expectations are not disappointed. Rather than in a mansion, the Styles live in a massive, off-white town house. Two solid stone pillars frame the short set of stairs leading up to the main entrance and the handrails are lined with buckets of sweet-smelling lilies and roses. Elaborate stone decorations grace the countless windows of the house.  
As we ascend, I can spot the same pattern engraved above the front-door. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Styles are awaiting you in the dining room. If you would please follow me”

The butler closes the door and leads us through a narrow but very tall hallway filled to the top with paintings of different sizes and shapes.

The dining room is of the same fashion look wise: wooden-tiles, too many paintings and snow white crocheted tablecloths atop of dainty tables.

And there they are: the happy couple beaming with their impeccable smiles, coming up to greet us. I glance over to my father who has his own fake smile already safely in place and have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes.

Mr. Styles looks like he’s about the same age as my father, the remnants of what once must have been luscious locks now streaky and silvery. When he shakes my father’s hand it’s with an extraordinary liveliness and I catch myself wishing it hurts him a little. 

Mrs. Styles is conventionally beautiful, painting the perfect picture of the obedient housewife. She bows to greet us and lifts her white dress in an orderly manner. It’s only when she straightens up again that I can see a stray curl fall from the top of her neatly fixed bun.

I smile obediently, imagining two invisible strings pulling at the corners of my mouth. 

“So this is your son, Mr. Tomlinson?”, Mr. Styles asks, watery eyes giving us a once-over. My father claps my shoulder, much more forcefully than necessary.

“Yes, Sir. Louis William Tomlinson, future holder of Tomlinson’s fashion industries”

“Oh I see, what a fine young boy. You must be very proud”, Mr. Styles says, nodding.

“Yes Sir, very”

At that I almost laugh out loud. I’m amused at the thought of how my father must have forced this sentence out of gritted teeth.

Once the dreadful greetings are over, Mr. Styles retrieves a golden pocket watch from his grey suit and frowns. 

“It’s almost time to eat and we’re still not complete. Francis, is the food ready yet?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And where in God’s name are Elizabeth and Harry? They were supposed to be here ten minutes ago. Please do see immediately where they have been held up”

“Of course, Sir” 

Francis leaves with another quick bow and Mr. Styles sighs exasperatedly, obviously feeling quite aggravated judging by the color of his face

“I guess it would be rude to make you stand around any longer” He pats his forehead with a silken tissue and gestures to the neatly set table.

“Mr. Tomlinson, Louis. Do sit down. The salads will be served shortly.”

Servants come to help us into our chairs and I’m momentarily amazed by the sheer amount of fruit and different sorts of buns that are already sitting in finely decorated bowls. 

“I want to apologize for my children, Mr. Tomlinson. They’re usually never late and I’m sure they’ll have a good reason for not being on time today.”

“Of course, Sir, it’s absolutely no trouble. I take it they are rather young?”, my father purrs and takes a swig of the wine the servant has poured him.

“Oh no not at all”, Mr. Styles laughs. “Well my youngest, Elizabeth is eleven and my oldest, Harry, is actually about the same age as your son so they can’t really be excused for their age I fear”

Oh great. Harry.

There goes my plan of sitting and doing nothing for next few hours. I was going to simply eat and look at the paintings, now it seems I’ll have to hold up an actual conversation with some upper class twerp who’s probably an exact copy of his father anyway.

My eyes narrow impatiently on the food and I wish they could just hurry up already, when Francis comes back with a little girl and a young man in tow, who I presume are Elizabeth and Harry.

And I swear in that moment I can hear angels sing. 

Because oh my God, Harry.

He looks absolutely nothing like his father. 

His soft brown hair is tucked into a ponytail, a few strands having come undone and framing his face in a manner I can only describe as ethereal. A blue crystal holds together the white ruffles that gently grace the milky skin of his neck and it makes him look like one of those angels you might find in a Pre-Raphaelite painting. 

He’s also so unlike his father in the way he moves- confidently and gracefully without a trace of plumpness or arrogance. 

He’s nothing like I imagined him to be and so beautiful I get the random but very strong urge to smash my head against the table. 

I’m not even surprised to feel my heart hammer against my chest as he sits down on the chair opposite of mine. 

“I’m really very sorry father. Right before we were about to descend, Lizzy spilled some ink onto her dress and we had to change it. I hope we haven’t caused you too much trouble”, Harry explains, in a voice that sounds both soft and deliberate.

Elizabeth pouts and peers at Mr. Styles with sad round eyes.

“I’m sorry father”

Mr. Styles reaches over to pat her hand reassuringly.

“Don’t be upset darling. What’s done is done”, and turning toward Harry: “Let us drop the matter altogether. This is Mr. Tomlinson and his son Louis Tomlinson, the ones I was talking to you about yesterday. They are our honored guests for today. I don’t know about you all but I for one am starving so we shall begin our lunch at once.”  
The sound of forks and knives against porcelain fills the room and Harry turns to greet my father.

Then his gaze lands on me, and as our eyes meet, I swear something seems to flit in between us.  
Some kind of undercurrent of invisible force, something that strikes me deep down to my very core.  
The feelings is so intense it makes me tremble. 

“Nice to meet you, Louis”, Harry says and I’m not sure if I imagine the slight sparkle of wonder that’s in his eyes. 

“It’s nice- Nice to meet you too”, I stammer back. He flashes me a bemused smile and turns to join the conversation between our fathers. 

I look at him and my mind goes blank.

\---

Long ago Mary and I had wanted to escape the ever busy city of London and had rented a place at an old farm in the countryside. The farm was huge, housing over a hundred different animals; cows, horses, chickens, pigs and even a little toad that ribbited every evening at exactly the same time. 

During one of our daily adventures we’d stumbled upon a massive haystack and I’d climbed all the way to the top of it. Of course being the ten year old boy I was I felt immensely proud of myself and it was as if I could do anything, like I was the king of the world. 

Then there was a strong a push against my back, and the next thing I knew I was falling. The fall must have only lasted for a split second but I still remember every part of it, how it felt so scary at first and how thrilling it became toward the end.

I look at Harry, and the same feeling is spreading in me, a sense of falling deeply, endlessly. It creeps through my veins and robs me of breath. 

I don’t want to look at him yet I can’t take my eyes off him, every move of his fascinates me, every word he speaks sounds more enchanting to me than any sonnet that has ever graced my ears. 

I’m so hyper-aware of his existence I can hardly focus on anything. I absolutely do not notice my name being called until it's almost too late.

“What about you, Louis? What are your plans for the future?” 

I whip my head around to Mr. Styles who’s looking at me expectantly. I feel Harry’s eyes on me too and my neck goes pink.

“Well I mean I haven’t- I haven’t really put a lot of thought into it yet but-”

“Oh shut up Louis. He’s always shooting his mouth off about going to Oxford, don’t play shy now son”, father cuts me off and claps my shoulder. At that, Harry’s brows draw together imperceptibly. 

“My father is right”, I say, trying to ignore him as best as possible.

“I’m planning to go to Oxford for the autumn semester."

“Oh really? What subjects?”

“English literature and philosophy”

“What a coincidence!” Mr. Styles exclaims joyfully,

“My son is planning to do the exact same subjects”, he turns to Harry and positively beams at him. 

I wonder for a few seconds if the universe is playing some strange trick on me. Then Harry looks at me and my thoughts dissipate again, like thin air.

“You’re interested in literature?”, he asks with a sly smile.

I nod, unable to speak.

“Could you perhaps help me with my essay for Hamlet? I’ve been brooding over it for ages and I can’t seem to bring it to a close. It might help to have another pair of eyes look over it”, Harry suggests almost off-handedly, giving me a lingering look and turning to Mr. Styles.

“Don’t you think so, father?”

Mr. Styles’s eyes light up even more. It’s obvious that he’s very proud of his son, content with the fact that he’s looking out for opportunities to better his academic work, even during a business luncheon.

“Indeed I think it’s a brilliant idea. But I do have to ask, Mr. Tomlinson, do you mind Harry taking advantage of Louis so rudely?”

My father gives a bellowing laughter.

“Well I don’t think he could be of any help to you,”  
He clears his throat with a sneer and leans over to Mr. Styles in a seemingly secretive manner.

“He’s not exactly the intelligent type.”

“Mr. Tomlinson! What a cruel thing to say about your son”, he replies, chuckling uncomfortably.

“I’m only speaking the truth. But perhaps it would be better to have some privacy to settle our deal in peace?” He tries to fake a charming smile alarmingly bad and I think I grow a bit sick.

So far, I haven’t consented to anything, even though I wouldn’t disagree anyway. I’m too shocked to process the fact that Harry’s asked me to help him with his bleeding essay on Hamlet - just about my most favorite Shakespeare play ever - so I’m really just going with the flow at the moment.

“Yes, that is absolutely true. Harry, if you’ll please show Louis up to your study room so his father and I can get down to business?”

“Of course, father”, Harry bows his head and moves to stand up.

I think now is my cue to leave too, so I quickly follow his suit, excuse myself with a nod and hurry to leave the room because he is almost at the stairs- mostly due to the fact that he has absolutely legs for days.

As I walk behind him up to the first floor, I still haven’t quite grasped the fact that Harry is leading me to his private study room, and that we’ll be sat next to each other writing a bleeding essay.  
I can feel my heartbeat in my throat as I watch his slender silhouette from behind.  
When we arrive at the top he strides over a crimson carpet and opens the door to his right with an ornate door handle.

His study room is flooded with sun, making the gilded spines of books in his shelves sparke with glistening light. There’s red carpet on the floor, and right before the humongous window a wooden writing table with stacks of paper and quills is placed. 

“I’m truly sorry I asked for your help so bluntly”, he states with an apologetic smile, moving a second velvet chair over to the one that’s already in front of his desk.

“I’m desperate to finish this monstrosity and took a chance with you, Louis, was it? Please do make yourself comfortable. If you need anything just ask; I can ring Francis up at any time.” He sits down with a huff and pats the chair next to him.

I stagger over and fall onto my chair with a graceless noise. We’re so close now our elbows are almost touching, and I think I can see my pale reflection in the blue crystal beneath his neck. 

I hope Harry can't hear my thunderous heartbeat. The feeling I had earlier was there again in full force, making my insides tingle with invisible electricity.  
It's like it's gotten worse now we're so much closer, sat together in a silence that's starting to feel oppressive in the heat of the April sun.

I’m expecting him to collect his notes now, to ask me questions and inputs on Hamlet, to do something to break the tension between us- but he doesn’t do anything.

Instead, he looks ahead, eyes fixed on a spot outside his window. I notice that all of a sudden, a more sorrowful expression has taken hold of them. 

“Your father doesn’t seem like a very nice person”, he says, turning his gaze to me.

I’m thrown off guard completely- not just by what he’s said but also how he’s said it; in an informal and casual way after talking so manneredly and properly during the luncheon. I can even hear a hint of a northern drawl in it.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right”, I chuckle dryly. “It’s fine though, I’m used to it by now”My voice is coarser than I expected it to be.

“No it’s far from fine. He hurt you”, Harry insists with a frown and I wish I could reach out and flatten it with my fingers.

“What do you mean, hurt me?”

He points to my shoulder and I almost laugh.

“Oh this? That’s nothing, he does this all the time”

As his frown deepens I smile at him with as much reassurance as I can muster up. He shouldn’t concern himself with my father, he isn’t worth one passing thought.

“Don’t worry Harry, I beg you. I’m fine.”

At that, a blush spreads across his cheeks and my stomach drops from how sweet it looks on him. Is he really blushing because I smiled at him? I suddenly get the desperate urge to change the topic and keep that sweet, rosy hue on him.

“Besides, don’t you have an essay to write? About Hamlet I was told?”

I’m not sure whether Harry will actually let the topic go like this, but he gives me a last lingering look, clears his throat to calm the heat in his face and turns to the mess of papers and books in front of him.

“Yes, that thing. Good God, when I tell you I’d rather solve a billion math equations than finish that monster of a paper”, he sighs, rummaging through some papers. He pulls on them, and causes a few thick editions of Hamlet to topple to the ground. 

I stoop to pick them up and as I come up again, I find him grinning at me.

“That was a lie by the way. I really really hate doing math.”

And it’s like the person I’ve perceived him to be at the dinner is gone completely. In front of me sits a bashful boy with a grin so wide and sly on his lips I fear it might split his cheeks. Not in a million have I thought of him as somebody possessing even an ounce of wittiness and it takes me completely by surprise, I give a chuckle, knowing I need to join in the banter quickly.

“Me neither. Failed it twice during my college days”, I say, equally jestingly and hand him the books. 

Harry laughs then, eyes crinkling up, and I can see a few small freckles under his eyes dance in the sunlight.  
“Who even likes math honestly,” he states, lifting another book right on the edge of the writing table. It’s there that a stack of scribbled paper surfaces and Harry gives an adorably over-dramatic gasp.

“Here it is!” 

He pulls the papers from their hiding place, holding them up in the air like a trophy. If he continues being so adorable, I may actually scream.

“I’ve already got everything: the introduction, the main body. I just can’t seem to come to a proper conclusion, you see?” 

He points to an empty part on the last page, but I don’t actually lower my gaze to look at it because I’m still so hung up on the way his eyes just sparkled. Then I remember I’m supposed to help him with his essay and swallow hard. 

Shakespeare shouldn’t be a problem for me, during my last year at college I had to write a ton of essays on his plays and I’m fairly certain I should be able to help him. Hamlet was one of my favorites. The infamous play on the young prince whose father was murdered by his uncle’s hands, and when the ghost of old Hamlet comes back to order him to avenge his death, he sets out to do just that. Of course there’s many obstacles and in the end Hamlet sort of ends up killing more people than just his uncle. Amongst them is also Ophelia, a girl whom I’m sure Hamlet never truly loved; but opinions differ on that one. 

“What’s your thesis?”, I ask, hoping it’s not going to be anything too difficult. 

“I want to find out whether Hamlet was actually in love with Ophelia”

oh, dear.

“What do you think?”, I blurt out before I can think and Harry blinks at me in confusion. 

“Tell me what you think so far from all the research you’ve done. Do you think Hamlet was actually in love with Ophelia?”

My heart hammers as I wait for his response, watching him flip through his pages. There is absolutely only one correct answer to this question. I knew it the first time I’d read Hamlet, the second I'd finished it, it was crystal clear to me that Hamlet had never loved Ophelia. He was enamoured by her for sure, but never truly in love. It’s clear that he admired her for her beauty when he was younger, even writing love poems to her. But later on in the play Ophelia betrays him by luring him into a trap set by his uncle and I’m sure it’s then that any trace of adoration Hamlet could have held for her dissipates. 

“Well I suppose he does love her; for one there’s the most obvious: his love letter to her”, Harry begins and twirls a loose strand of fine, brown hair around his finger. I’m momentarily distracted by the way it flashes in the sunlight and I don’t notice at first what he starts reciting, and when I do my heart gives a start.

“Doubt thou the stars are fire,  
Doubt that the sun doth move,  
Doubt lying to be… doubt truth to be… what was it again? I seem to have quite forgotten it”

“Doubt truth to be a liar,  
But never doubt I love”, I finish for him, almost reverently. 

It’s the love poem Hamlet wrote to Ophelia, it’s filled with that early infatuation he’d had for her, before she betrayed him, and it’s one of my favorite pieces of poetry. 

Harry ducks his head and I can see it again, that sweet blush of his all over his cheeks and neck. Suddenly, I feel myself grow strangely giddy, partly because he’s just recited those beautiful lines in his soft, melodic voice and partly because I love seeing him flustered. I decide that I want to keep making him blush so I can see that rosy tint on his cheeks as much as possible.

“I should think someone who has written an essay on Hamlet knows this crucial quote by heart, Mr. Styles”, I tell him with a smirk.

The remark works perfectly, and Harry blushes all the way down to his collarbone, right to where his skin disappears into the white ruffles on his chest. For a moment, I have a hard time averting my eyes back up to his face.

“Well it’s been a while since I’ve looked at it”, he splutters, tucking the strand of hair behind his ear and skimming over the page nervously.

“Besides, there’s a lot more steadfast proof: my favorite one is in Act 5 Scene 1”, he says, trying to hide his pink face.  
“Hamlet witnesses Ophelia’s funeral and he grows mad with sadness: attacking Laertes and proclaiming his undying love for her. I think that should be proof enough”

I know what scene he’s talking about and I guess from a superficial point of view he’s right. Hamlet does admit he was in love with Ophelia. But to me it’s obvious that it’s just a trick, a farce to toy with Laertes and to try and side with him so he doesn’t kill Hamlet. And what easier way to gain the dead girl’s brother’s sympathy by admitting you were madly in love with her? I’m not saying it was a good plan, I’m just saying Hamlet was surely acting mad in that scene and definitely not telling the truth. 

Harry lowers his essay to glance at me and I notice I haven’t said anything to him yet. I try to fumble for an answer that could incorporate everything I’m thinking when he cuts me off with a smile that suddenly looks very sly. 

“You obviously don’t agree with me”, he states, lifting his eyebrows. I wonder if my discontent was really that obvious on my face. 

“No, not really”, I admit, a little embarrassed. 

His grin grows even wider. He plucks a copy of Hamlet from his desk and stretches it out toward me. 

“Convince me then. Convince me that Hamlet never cared for Ophelia, that her death didn’t face him at all”

I blink at him. When have I become the person to be outsmarted by him? The avid Shakespeare lover in me rouses and I know I can’t stand for that. 

“Now I didn’t say he never felt anything for her, that’s what the love letter is about in my opinion: very obvious infatuation. But there’s no depth behind that. Ophelia betrays him as she sides with Polonius and Claudius and I’m sure that’s when he stops to adore her even for her beauty.”

I can feel myself getting hot. This is my thing, talking about and analyzing literature. Living through other people’s stories. I can feel it brimming deep in my bones and I know that it’s what I’m meant to do, just the same as it is with writing.  
And somehow it feels even better here, sitting next to Harry. It makes me tingle with excitement all over, and there’s a strange kick I derive from having his expectant gaze glued to me.

I make a show of picking the book from his hands, cracking it open at the beginning of the second scene of Act 5. 

“See here? Hamlet is talking to Horatio after his apparent meltdown over Ophelia’s death and he tells him: So much for this, sir. Doesn’t that sound ridiculous to you? He’s basically admitting that it was all just some stupid act that he’s now done with. I can’t for sure say why he pretended to be sad over her death but it may have been to divert Laertes anger, to share his grief in order for him to reconsider his resolution of killing Hamlet”, I finish, shutting the book with a satisfactory grin.

Harry has his head propped up on one hand, eyes narrowed in on me.

“Interesting, interesting. You know what’s also interesting?”

What? “What is it?”, I ask carefully. I was sure I was able to outsmart him, but he doesn’t seem as impressed as I’d hoped. 

“You. You look just like my grandfather. He was an English teacher and he died of grief when we burned down his library”, Harry sighs, shaking his head. The loose strands of his ponytail shake with it.

It’s dead quiet for a moment, I don’t know what to say. Do I tell him I’m flattered? Do I say my condolences? And why on God’s green earth did they burn down the poor sod’s library? Then Harry’s ridiculously rosy lips move and he starts crumbling with laughter.

“You should have seen your face”, he manages to heave, in between bursts of laughter.

“You moron! I thought you were being serious”, I yell, leaning over to whack the book across his head.

He starts laughing even more, and a mix of embarrassment and utter joy starts bubbling up in me.  
His laugh sounds so bright and it’s infectious, eyes all crinkled up and freckles dancing. It takes everything in me not to let a grin slip on my face.

“You’ve gotta admit, that was funny”, he says, wheezing. This idiot.

“Yeah, you sure are a witty one”, I reply cunningly, trying to sound as annoyed as possible. I guess it’s safe to say that’s he got me well with that one and I make a promise to myself to work on my wit with Mary.

He gives a last chuckle and I see him wipe his tears with the soft fabric of his sleeves. He’s flushed again all over, the red apples of his cheeks glowing. We sit quietly then, calming our breaths. 

It’s only when I look over to him again that I see his face has turned pale again and I realize suddenly a cloud must have pushed itself in front of the sun. 

An ominous atmosphere of gray tones has filled the study room; The gilded titles of his books that used to gleam have ceased to do so, and his velvet chaises have lost their pristinely red glow.

It’s not at all uncommon for this season, the weather tends to fluctuate quite often during April. Still I shiver and see that Harry’s looking out the window, with his head on his arms.  
Is it just me or do his eyes look hooded? I want to say something but I can’t; he was laughing only a minute ago and now it seems like a flick has been switched.

Now that he’s so still I can see the color of his eyes clearly: green with little specks of silver. I feel my heart skitter, both from how absolutely lovely they look and from the fact that he’s suddenly so quiet. It happened so quickly it almost scares me a bit.

“Louis”, he says then, quietly, and I can hear my breath stutter.

“Hm?”

“Why did Hamlet consider suicide, when he still hadn’t revenged his father’s death? And why didn’t he kill Claudius much earlier, when he so desperately wanted to?”

He forms a fist with his hand and puts his head atop of it, looking up at me with a tilted glance. There’s a shadow on his face, the way he speaks makes a shiver run down my spine: it’s toneless, and void of any emotion. A stark contrast to the bright laugh I’d witnessed before.

“That’s a good question”, I murmur, pulling on my lower lip.

Uneasiness creeps up my throat, clammers itself around it and makes me unable to answer. It’s not just his voice but his gaze: it looks so empty and it leaves me so confused. Where has the bright, bashful boy gone? What is the meaning of his question? I know faintly what he may be talking about, I’ve asked myself those questions too, over and over again. 

Why did Hamlet have such a hard time acting according to his will? Why did he hesitate to kill Claudius but didn’t wait one second to ram his sword into Polonius, thinking it was in fact Claudius?

It was during a stormy night a few months ago I’d finally come to an answer I thought might correspond with the truth. I sat in my room, shaking from some blows my father had delivered me. I’ve quite forgotten what exactly I did to anger him; maybe I’d spoken when I wasn’t supposed to. The imprints of his fists pounded in my stomach and I sat in flickering candle light, thinking of what a coward I’d been not to stand up to him.

“I guess he has a hard time facing himself”, I start, voice wavering. It feels odd knowing what I’m about to say reaches so deep within me, it seems I can still feel the ghost of my father’s punches painfully in my gut. I’m letting my gaze wander out the window, so I don’t have to meet his eyes. It feels too tremendous, too personal to keep his empty gaze. I have to take a shuddering breath before I can continue.

“I mean his truest, inner self. In most of his soliloquies, where he’s meant to do just that he only rambles, talking about ethical and philosophical questions. He never truly stops to look into himself and to try and realize what he actually wants to do.  
If he’d faced his truest, innermost feelings earlier, perhaps he could have let go of this twisted need for revenge. Perhaps he could have seen that it wasn’t in his nature to kill and that he was essentially complying a dead man’s wish - rather than obeying his own will.  
I guess he couldn’t bear the thought of betraying his father, of leaving his death unavenged. He was afraid that if he looked into himself he’d see that he was too much of a coward to act according to his father’s wishes. That’s why he makes such brash decisions I think, because he feels guilty and ashamed. And if he hadn’t been so afraid of whatever may come after death, he would have chosen to take his life rather than standing this shame for longer; rather than facing his own truth and finding his will.”

I let the words run out of me in one gentle stream, words I’d thought up in flickering candle light and never confessed to anyone out loud.

When I look up from the spot I’d fixed on while speaking, Harry is staring out the window with his empty gaze. He’s back to looking like a painting: rivulets of hazelnut curls flowing from where they’re tied together near his nape down to his shoulders. I can see that he’s gnawing on his lower lip.

“I guess the bravest man among us is afraid of himself “, he murmurs then, more to himself than to me.

And I halt dead in my tracks. It’s like all my thoughts disappear and then zero in again only on these words. They ring sharply in me and I know they’re familiar, somewhere deep down I know I have read these exact words over and over again, have studied them, thought about them and recited them. It’s those exact words that drove me to the conclusion that I too, was madly afraid of my truest self.

Back then, it had all come crumbling down on me, I was sat crying over unfinished lines of poetry, too caught up in condemning myself for being such coward to hear Mary open the door gently and draw closer. She’d wrapped her arms around me and let me cry into her shoulder. I didn’t have the heart to tell her why I was so upset.  
It’s not like I needed to anyway because she just did what she always does: She started cracking jokes: dumb ones, nonsensical ones but they helped me; I can still remember how relieved I’d felt as with every chuckle the weight on my chest seemed to lift little by little.

Between Harry and me it feels just as heavy now, and I suddenly grow so desperate to relieve it. He looks like he’s deep in thought and if I’m honest, it looks like he’s suffering a bit too. My stomach clenches.

I catch myself wanting to reach out to him, to let him sink into my arms just as I was able to do with Mary. I know exactly I can’t do that and I’m wracking my brain instead for possible things I could say to cheer him up, to procure a smile and to chase away the emptiness that is written all over him so clearly.

“Harry”, I mumble, before I can think about it. 

He lifts his gaze slowly, sparkling at me out of half-expectant, half-empty eyes. The greyish sheen of the outside world hits his face in a way that makes him look so sorrowful and I wonder just what it is that’s making him suffer.

I need to say something, now.

“You know I also think that Horatio totally had a crush on Hamlet” I regret my words for a second before I see his face relax and the relief of it floods me. It’s a ridiculous theory of course (though not impossible) to think that Horatio may have had romantic feelings for his best friend. I know all my English teachers would have whacked me across the head for it. But I know I’ll be able to cheer Harry up with it, so I roll with it.

“Yes and if his eyes hadn’t been so clouded with the desire to kill his father, he may have noticed Horatio’s feelings for him”, I continue, praising myself for the small smile that’s beginning to creep onto Harry’s face.

“You think so?”, he asks shyly.

“Yes of course, in an alternate ending Horatio proposes to Hamlet and they live happily ever after”, I affirm, making a show of grinning knowingly and raising my eyebrows. 

His cheeks go pink and he shakes his head.

“What strange things you say”, he mutters, smiling, and I can’t state how happy I am to see it.

From then on, that emptiness doesn’t come back, and Harry slowly reverts back to being bashful and playful. It’s not as pronounced as when we’d first come to his room but it’s good enough. It’s comfortable and it’s so new to me, I barely have discussions like these with anyone but Mary.  
We continue to talk about Hamlet, then our parents and their business deal. We tell each other how surprised we were to find out we’d both planned to go to Oxford taking the same subjects.  
We talk until our throats are dry and Harry’s hair is all mussed up because he’s been playing with it all this time. He notices it suddenly and blushes as he moves to rearrange it.  
The auburn glow of a setting sun catches it at just the right time and makes it shine like pure gold. My heart nearly stops dead in my chest from how beautiful it looks.

Minutes later though, Francis comes in and it’s all over. Our fathers beckon us back down, announcing that the deal was settled and the Styles would be the happy sponsor to our company. Mr. Styles and father are shaking each others hands in front of a cab and I badly wish I was still up in the warm study room, talking, talking, talking away, and listening to Harry’s soft voice. 

He’s standing right beside me now, and as he closes his hand around my arm to pull me toward him, it sends electric sparks through me. I get the sense of falling again, just like I did when I’d first met his eyes. I’ve grown familiar with them now: I’ve seen how they sparkle when he’s smiling and how they can look so empty it scares me. It’s the strangest sensation.

“It was lovely talking to you today”, he says, the crimson color of another blush spreading sweetly over his cheeks.

Say it back, I want to yell at myself. Say it back you idiot.

But before I can he cuts my stream of thought.

“Listen I wanted to ask you something”,he begins, lowering his gaze. A few strands of brown hair fall into the middle of his forehead and he blows at them before continuing.

“I wanted to ask you if you’d like to go to church with me next Sunday”

“To church?”, I splutter, nearly choking on my own spit. To church? Harry is inviting me to go to church with him?

“Yes… do you not want to?”

I nearly panic as I see a hint of disappointment on his face.

“No of course I just- what church is it?”

“It’s the All Saints Church, do you know where that is?”

My heart is going havoc in my chest as I nod. I do know in fact where that particular church is even though churches and religion are not exactly my thing. I don’t believe I’ve ever even set foot in one since I had my first communion. 

“Great! I can’t wait to see you there, let's say at around noon?”, Harry asks happily and his beaming smile actually sends shivers down my spine. 

\---

That night I close the door to my room, put ink, a quill, and paper right in front of me and want to write about what happened, how I feel like I’ve been moved drastically and profoundly, in a way I have never been before. 

But as much I try, I fail to put even one line down.

I huff in defeat and lean my head on top of my arms. 

Harry.

He started out as such a proper, young gentleman, behaving just the way they always do.  
Then we went up to his room and it seemed like he was switched completely, bashful and playful and grinning. There was also the time his gaze looked so empty it scared me. I can’t make sense of his personality, yet the thought of his lovely smile and his pink cheeks makes my stomach tingle wildly. 

I let my mind wander back five years ago, to the time I’d slowly started noticing that I was most likely never to fall in love with a girl. I was in college at that time and while most of my mates were going on about girls and breasts and long hair, I was sharing secret pecks with a guy two years my senior. 

One day he’d told me God had spoken to him and that he wasn’t going to pursue the path of sin anymore. Of course I was terrified, still very much believing that I would be expelled from heaven for my unnatural inclination. (poor little me didn’t have the foggiest inkling I’d outgrow my Christian upbringing and become somewhat of an atheist - even though I’m still trying to figure that one out)

I’d been brooding over it for weeks, barely eating and sleeping until Mary sat me down and made me tell her. I was sobbing over my confession, mumbling about how there must have been something seriously wrong with me and that I was disgusting and would never be able to go to heaven.

To my surprise, Mary laughed in relief and told me she’d been worried I was seriously ill. And even though I had better kept it a secret from my father, she assured me that there was otherwise nothing wrong with me, that I was a normal, healthy young boy and most definitely wouldn’t be sent to the pits of hell.

Ever since then I’ve been mostly fine with it, I’ve stopped feeling ashamed for liking men but I will also admit that I haven’t done anything with anyone either, neither kissing nor more than that. I blush as I think back to Harry carding his long, slender fingers through his hair, the way his collar bone disappeared into the soft ruffles of his shirt.

Stop it, Louis. He’s inviting me over to a church for heaven’s sake. This must mean he’s religious, right? I grow a little sick at the thought of it. 

I let my gaze wander over my desk, stacked with tons of written paper and so, so many books. My eyes land on a particularly worn edition of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. The earlier version of course, not the edited one where the best passages have been omitted. I’ve probably read it over twenty times already. 

Then it’s like a bolt of lighting shoots through me and I’m sitting upright in my chair.

“But the bravest man among us is afraid of himself”, I whisper to myself the quote Harry’s muttered only hours earlier.

Of course! It’s from The Picture of Dorian Gray, that’s where I knew it from! And I’m so confused my brow creases because does that mean Harry’s read it? Read it intently enough to be able to recite lines of it perfectly? But the book is very unchristian, deemed sinful and poisonous by multiple critics. 

My heart is hammering as I pick it up with shaky fingers and crack it open. I land on a page where I’ve underlined two passages with thick, red lines.

I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul [...]

The first time I’d read those lines I’d found it peculiar, nearly impossible to say such a thing about somebody one has never met before. Now, it seems the words have taken on a new meaning, they resonate within me and it makes me shudder with just how much I feel like I can relate to them now.  
My heart’s nearly springing out of my chest as my gaze wanders lower, to the second quote at the bottom of the page.

I had a strange feeling that Fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows.

I’m shivering as I’m catapulted back to Harry’s gray study room, the way his whole demeanor had changed like the weather, switched from unabashedly happy to deeply sorrowful. For a moment I grow afraid as a strange sense of foreboding comes over me.  
But then I see his smile, those beautiful rosy cheeks.

I shut the book with a sigh. 

There’s no use in pondering over it now. Harry does seem to be full of contradictions, but his personality seems lovely to me still and I can’t wait to meet him again. A tingly excitement spreads in my chest when I think about the fact that Sunday is only three days away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think somebody's falling in love hehe.
> 
> I hope this wasn't too much Hamlet. I'm currently obsessed with Shakespeare so I just had to include it! :)


	3. Chapter 3

“Are you sure you’re not going to burst into flames once you step into All Saint’s?”, Mary jokes while stuffing me into a coat I know I’m not going to need. The April sun burns brightly and the entrance of our house feels stuffy with heat and stale air.

At her comment, I roll my eyes so hard I’m sure I can see the insides of my brain.

“Ha, ha”, I reply, lips pressed tightly so I don’t risk snapping at her.

“My, someone’s irritated today”, she huffs, slapping my bum and stepping back to admire her work. 

“Will you at least tell me who you’re meeting with?”

“I’ve told you before, I’m just going to church with a friend, that’s all”, I mutter, turning to leave through the front door. I’m really not in the mood to talk to Mary right now, mainly because I’m more nervous than I thought I was going to be and also because I’m practically aching to see Harry again. The ache had started the minute I’d left him, and even though it was only dull at first it had grown, spread through my limbs to my heart until it became nearly unbearable.

It’s only been three days and yet I already fear he’s only a distant image, some sort of vivid, wonderful dream that was too good to be true.

I shake Mary off before she can rearrange my tie for the millionth time today and haul a cab. 

It’s not long to the All Saints Church - only about twenty minutes - but its location makes it feel like I’m entering another world, a world far away from the glorious London I grew up in. After gliding over neat cobble stones for a few minutes we enter what many consider to be the most haunting place in London: The East End, an area of misfortune and poverty.  
The difference is stark and immediate: one second you’re looking at noble mansions in neat rows, the next you’re driving through dirty, narrow alleyways filled with poor beggars, crying orphans and a horrible stench that makes me want to puke. I feel ashamed for wanting to avert my eyes, for wanting to pretend like what I’m seeing isn’t also a part of the city I call home. 

Most of our factory workers are from the East End, and just yesterday I fought with my father over it, begged him to invest money now that he’d got a sponsor, so that the workers could at least be safe, could at least work without fearing for their lives every day. 

As always he’d threatened me, told me he’d throw me out on the streets with them if I wanted to stab him in the back so badly. A punch to my gut followed, the force of it making me dry heave. The punch didn’t burn as much as the frustration boiling in me, a frustration so strong I could have cried. I truly wish I’d been courageous enough to fight back, to stand my ground just this one time; but like the coward I am I fled to my room.  
The same sort of helplessness is rising in me again now that I see them flit by, the misery that is written all over their faces. Absentmindedly, I put a hand on my lower abdomen, to a spot where pain is still pounding faintly.

\---

As the church comes into a view, I shake my head strongly and try to swallow the guilt, to lock it away somewhere I know it shouldn’t bother me anymore. It’s incessant and bothersome though and as of recently I’ve had a harder time ignoring it, it seems every punch of my father makes that prison crumble, saws away at its bars until someday I fear it will all cave in, the place where I’d stowed all my cowardice, all the shame and the pain. 

I force myself to take a deep breath. With shaky legs I descend the step to the cab door and pay the cab driver who sets off to where we came from immediately. 

Then, I lift my gaze and am momentarily blinded by sunlight before the outline of the church becomes visible against it.  
It’s beautiful; as beautiful as it can get in the East End. The white stonewalls seem fairly clean, and a metal cross is fixed above the wooden doors.  
There’s a few people gathering in front of the entrance already.  
It’s clear that they’re working class from the way they’re dressed: pale, chafed clothing that’s ripped and stained in many places. I suddenly feel very out of place in my neat coat and the cap, so I pick it from my head and stuff it into my coat pocket. 

“Aw don’t take it off. I really liked it on you!”

I whip my head around to see a pair of green eyes sparkle at me mischievously. 

“Harry!”, I splutter before I can think. 

“You’re late. I thought you weren’t going to come”

“I know, I got held off, I’m sorry”

“It’s okay. You’re here now” Harry tilts his head and smiles at me. It’s a gentle one, and it seems to light up his whole face. Also when on earth did he get behind me? I didn’t hear anyone draw closer as I’d gotten out the cab.

“I hope you like children”, he asks then and I blink because what? 

“What?”, I stutter, thrown off by the way the gleaming sun catches his brown hair and the glimmering ruby that’s dangling on a golden necklace around his throat. 

“I’m teaching children at this church school every other week. Didn’t I tell you?”

“No I think you left that part out”, I say, trying to direct my gaze back to his face. 

Church school? As far as I know, these are one of the only means for working class children to get some kind of education. Usually it’s upper class women who will visit churches and teach children the basics in writing, reading and math. I didn’t know that there are also men who give lessons.

“We must hurry, I’m sure they’re all waiting already” He takes my hand and a current of electricity crawls up my arm as he leads me toward the church. I’m stumbling behind him, desperately trying to keep my balance as he strides forward with legs that are much longer and faster than mine. 

Harry’s sure a lot brighter today, not a trace left of the sorrowful side I witnessed three days ago. He’s playful and it makes me so happy to see it. It’s like it reaches me too, makes me forget those dark things I’ve been pondering over. He feels like a beam of light, a sun in the darkness, a shelter on a rainy day and with every step I feel lighter.  
I don’t care if I’m going to have to put up with some bratty kids if it means being able to be next to him, enjoy the warmth that’s pooling in my heart. 

“There we are” He gives a relieved huff and lets go of my hand.  
I almost didn’t notice that we’d avoided entering the front door of the church and went around it, to a small rear entrance that Harry is now opening.

A gust of cool, stale air whips at us and we enter a narrow staircase. I immediately miss his hand in mine and I can feel my face heating up with just how much I wish I was still touching him somehow.

Not in church Louis. I remind myself, flushing. Not in church. 

We descend the stairs and I can see the people from before, waiting in front of another wooden door. I wasn't even aware that there were so many children amongst them: some holding on to their parent’s hand, some playing tag with each other and running around in the small area between the door and the staircase. It’s hard to say just how old they are, but judging from the difference of height between the oldest and the very young ones, it seems that their ages range from toddlers to nearly adults.  
The space they are in feels cramped and there’s stonewalls all around us and under us. Only a few gas lamps lined along the staircase provide some sort of lighting.

As the children spot Harry, they start beaming.

“Harry!” A little girl with a toothy grin comes stumbling forth. 

“Emily!”, he calls back, imitating her enthusiasm, and crouches to smile at her. “Do you want up?”

Emily nods eagerly, whipping her curly ponytails back and forth in the process. He picks her up to place her on his hip and I can feel my heart stutter as she puts her skinny arms around his neck and hugs him.

So Harry is good with kids too.

I don’t think anything about him can surprise me anymore.

He turns to me with Emily on his arm and nods in my direction.

“This is Louis, Emily. Will you say hi to him?”

“Hi Louis” She hides her face shyly in Harry’s neck. 

I give a small wave and I’m sure I’m the one who’s more nervous than her, because I can feel myself flushing yet again.

“Everyone, this is Louis. He will be joining our class today” Harry turns to the group of people and I’m positive I must be as red as a ripe apple. I really don’t understand why I’m so nervous, they seem nice and wave at me but I still feel so uncomfortable under their attention.

Lucky for me their greetings only last shortly and Harry opens the door to what I presume to be a classroom, balancing a giggling Emily on his arm. As soon as it’s opened, the children wave their parents goodbye and filter in.

\---

It turns out that “the classroom” is really just a small space under the church, a room which may as well have served as a storage room in the past. It’s cramped and it’s stifling; there’s only a few tiny slits for windows and around fifty children stuffed behind rows of massive wooden benches. In the front, there’s a small black board nailed to the stone wall.

Only a few scarce rays of sunlight find their way into the room, illuminating pieces of dust that are dancing over the children’s heads.  
I notice in relief that despite the oppressive climate the atmosphere in the room is the complete opposite: the stifling air is filled with laughter, some children are loudly telling jokes in some of the back rows and I can just about dodge a paper plane that was thrown at me from behind.

Emily giggles as Harry sets her down next to me; into an empty seat in the first row.

“Louis almost got shot”, she sing-songs, hiding her laughter behind her hands.

“Indeed he almost did. I think he should be more careful, shouldn’t he?” Harry shoots me a mocking glance (and even though I really like this playful side in him, I know when somebody’s being an utter ass.)

“Idiot”, I mouth at him and fold my arms in a manner I hope comes across as insolent.

Emily and Harry both giggle at me before he turns to the class and claps his hands to get their attention. From my seat next to her, I can see the way Emily beams at him out of big, round eyes.

In general, all the children seem to adore him, they stop talking immediately and obey well as he tells them to fold their hands for prayer.

I feel a pang in my chest. Does that mean he is religious after all? Like truly? I quickly fold my hands and pretend to know the words to a prayer I’m sure I’ve never heard before.

I don’t have time to worry much longer, class begins immediately and my attention is inevitably drawn to Harry. It appears the first lesson is set for reading practice as he begins scribbling simple sentences onto the chalkboard. His sleeve falls to his elbow and I can see his dainty wrist on his lower arm. I’m uncertain whether wrists can actually be beautiful but in any case, his is definitely the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. 

“Alright, can anyone read this sentence for me?”, he calls out. One of the younger boys in the back rows stands up. His mates are whispering to him and one second later, I know exactly why.

“Mrs. Beadsworth has a big butt”, he states confidently, without a hint of embarrassment.

The class erupts into wild cackling and even I can’t refrain a snort. Harry glares at me.

“That’s quite enough out of you, Thomas. Please sit down”

I don’t know who poor Mrs. Beadsworth is but all of those around me seem to know her rather well. The class has a hard time calming down and Harry’s forced to clap his hands again for them to stifle their giggles.

“Alright guys let's give that a rest. Anyone else want a try?”

Next to me, Emily raises her hand, nearly jumping up and down in her seat of excitement.

“Yes, Emily?”

“Mice eat cheese and cats eat mice”, she reads perfectly the scribbles on the blackboard even I have a hard time deciphering. 

“Very good, darling. That was perfect”, Harry tells her and she blushes at the praise, falling back into her seat with a satisfied smile.

I tilt my head to read the sentence again. What on earth? It seems a tad too morbid for a room full of children, but no one seems to care much. I stretch out my legs and lean back, enjoying the fact that I can keep my gaze on Harry as much as I want.

Class is all really bright and wonderful from then on, the children truly seem to be learning. It’s clear that all of them want to be here, and love being here. Except for a few jokes here and there they’re lifting their hands eagerly and shouting their answers with red cheeks. 

I’m briefly reminded to my time at college, how some of my mates used to complain about everything all the time: about the workload, the thick books, the long hours. I must admit I sometimes joined them too. But here it’s different; those children sit obediently without complaint through multiple hours with only short breaks in between. 

It’s long past midday when the last lesson begins. The air in the room is more than stifling, and the sunlight filtering in has turned from bright yellow to warm orange. 

Some of the younger children have started yawning and propping their heads up on their hands. I’m fairly certain some are already on the verge of sleep, while the olders are still scratching away on slips of paper.

It seems the last lesson is writing practice. Harry is striding from one corner to the other, reading from a leather-bound book in his hands. He’s not showing any signs of tiredness, still avidly reciting lines of poetry.

His voice is lulling me in. I feel my eyelids grow heavy and I have to blink to prevent myself from nodding off.  
It’s only then, when everything around me goes a bit hazy, that for the first time today I grow fully aware of his presence and the effects it has on me. In a weird way, I feel like I’ve known him forever, like the person in front of me isn’t just some stranger I’ve met three days ago. I get a sense of peace whenever his silver-speckled eyes graze mine, and at the same time they set off a wild tingling sensation in my stomach. 

I watch the ruby on his necklace sparkle as he leans down to a little boy who’s obviously sound asleep. He gently taps his shoulder and the boy blinks at him in confusion before he lays his head back down on the table to go right back to sleep. Harry leaves him be then and my stomach clenches hard. I know exactly why he didn’t bother waking him up again.

The boy must have been around seven years old, which means he’s already at the age when most working class families send their children off to work in factories. They rely on their children’s income to be able to make ends meet and to be able to provide at least some food, even if it’s simple, stale bread or a glass of milk. Working hours are long and hard especially for such a small, frail boy and I can’t imagine how tired he must feel. 

I’m so glad Harry doesn’t force him and lets him rest but it makes my heart hurt knowing he isn’t even able to enjoy the little pieces of freedom he’s allowed. He’s a child for god’s sake, he shouldn’t even think of working, and be able to play with his friends and learn as much as he wants. 

I feel white hot anger boil in me and I clench my fist over the spot where my father punched me.The kind of dissatisfaction I feel toward this world, its unfairness and its inequality, is often directed straight toward my father and the fact that he refuses to invest money in bettering working circumstances when in truth, it would only be a drop in the ocean. A pitch black one, where there’s so many underlying issues and where so many people are stuck in a system that works by exploiting the weakest. 

That’s why I can’t stand this society, how they boast about their riches and pretend there’s nothing wrong, when half the population in London is starving away and barely scraping by. For a moment, I’m even mad at Harry, simply for the fact that he’s upper class and rich.

Then I see him pat another’s boy’s head who in turn flashes him a proud smile, and my gaze softens.  
I know he’s not like them, I just know it. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be here right now, voluntarily devoting his time to teaching them. As I look around and see many tired but content smiles, it dawns on me that this isn’t just some futile effort to educate the working classes. Harry is giving them an escape, a place for them to feel like children in a world that forces them to grow up and experience the darkest parts of life way too early.

Tears prick at the back of my eyes as I imagine what kind of misery these children already had to endure, how many comrades they’ve seen getting injured or even dying. How many of them have lost a parent or a sibling to industrial accidents? How many of them have had to work so long and endured burning hunger to the point where they were too tired to stand? 

\---

Class ends shortly after and I catch myself feeling sort of relieved about it.

Outside, the younger children are gathering around Harry, dancing around him and pulling on his hands and shirt.

“Hey now, be a little more gentle will you”, he reprimands them with a flustered smile and I can see from the pink blush on his cheeks that he’s not at all opposed to the attention.

His eyes light up as he sees Emily standing a little offside and he makes his way towards her to pick her up.

“Well look who we’ve got here, Miss Emily”, he bounces her on his hip and Emily squeals at the nickname, planting a wet kiss on his cheek. 

The other children start to leave then, waving their goodbyes and running off: Some with their parents, some with older siblings and some completely on their own.  
They disappear into darker alleyways while we remain in the warm light of a setting sun, leaning against the sidewall of the church.

It’s suddenly very quiet. When I look over, I can see that Emily has fallen asleep against Harry’s shoulder and that he too, has his eyes closed. His lashes throw shadows onto his cheeks and I’m noticing for the first time just how tired he looks.

When he notices my gaze he blinks his eyes open and turns to me.  
“Emily’s mother is always a little late on Sundays”, he gives me an apologetic look.”I’m very sorry. You can leave if you want to”

I shake my head avidly. “I don’t mind waiting”  
As if I minded spending more time with him. I’m tingling all over just standing next to him, I would wait here with him forever if that’s what it took.

He gives me a tired smile and nods to the girl in his arms.  
“Must have been some dead exhausting lessons in there. Perhaps I should be a little less strict with them?”

“I thought you were wonderful” I smile at him and watch delighted as his cheeks take on that sweet crimson hue. You were more than wonderful, I’d love to add but I stop myself as I see him looking down.

“I wish I could do more”, he murmurs then, thinly, so quietly I can barely understand it.  
“They mean the world to me you know? And all I can do is dance around like an idiot in front of them, trying to fix something I know can never be mended”

I’m not exactly sure what he means but I think I have an idea.

“It’s hard”, he continues, gaze locked firmly on the ground. “knowing that I may never see some of them again. I’m always so worried they’re going to be hurt but then I feel incredibly stupid for feeling down because it’s not me who’s suffering is it? I get to go home to have a warm meal when I know that most of them will be forced to go to bed hungry”

He adjusts Emily on his arm and puts a strand of hair that’s gone loose from her pig tails behind her ear. 

“It’s just not fair and I wish I could do more” He swallows, looks up at me, and for a moment I can see the ghost of that sorrowful expression from three days ago flit over his face.  
I also notice that his eyes are glistened over. 

He’s being so open and all I can do is gape at him. I try to open my mouth but no words come out.  
I agree with him, on everything he’s said and I understand him but I also know that I’ve got no solution either. There are no comforting words to tell him, because he’s simply stated the whole, painful truth. 

“You’ve already done a lot, Harry”, I say then, not wanting to meet his eyes.  
“And you’ve given them happiness, made them smile. It’s more than most of us do”

I’m not sure if those words carry any comfort, but when I look up, he’s got a weak smile on his lips.

“Thank you” He turns his gaze away and I can see he’s searching for the right words to say. As they leave his pink lips, my heart nearly leaps out of my chest.

“I’m glad you came”

I try to fumble for an answer, but a female voice suddenly interrupts me.

“Mr. Styles!”

The voice belongs to a young woman, from the looks of her round, soft face she couldn’t have been much older than us. She’s stumbling toward us from a back road, her dark curls in disarray and clutching the dirty fabric of her frock in her hands.

I want to be angry with her for spoiling this moment, but as she draws closer, I can see that her dress is ripped right over where her breasts are, and traces of red lipstick are smeared onto her cheek. Instead of anger, my chest is filled with pity.

“Mr. Styles I’m so sorry I’m late”

She nearly falls before she can catch herself in front of us. 

“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Sullivan.” Harry gives her a reassuring smile.

“Did Emily at least behave well?” Mrs. Sullivan reaches out to lift the girl from him. Harry has to loosen Emily’s fist on his shirt before she can take her off of him.

“Of course, like an angel” 

Mrs. Sullivan’s thin knees bend under the weight of her daughter and for a moment it looks like Emily is going to wake up, but then she puts her arms around her mother’s neck and continues sleeping.

Meanwhile, Harry rummages in the pocket of his trousers and pulls some sweets and money out of it. Before Mrs. Sullivan can protest, he hands them to her. 

“Just give Emily the sweets when she wakes up and put the money to good use for yourself” He tries to mask the obvious charitable gesture with a jesting remark but it doesn’t really work, we all seem to know it. 

Mrs. Sullivan stuffs the sweets and the money into her frock. A shadow has fallen onto her face and she leaves with a tight-lipped nod, Emily bouncing on her chest and never once having acknowledged my existence. 

We stand in silence until she’s disappeared.

Then, Harry sighs next to me, so deeply it seems all the air in his lungs leaves his body. It looks like his legs are threatening to give up underneath him.  
The sun has started to dive behind the horizon and he’s gazing at the sunset so sorrowfully I wish I could say anything, anything to make that darkness leave his face. 

But words tend to fail me in situations like these. 

“I have to go now” His voice is quiet and he draws nearer.

He comes so close I can see my reflection in the ruby around his neck. 

“I already told you but I’m so glad you were here today”, he says and reaches out to take my hand.

I’m trying hard not to let my breath falter when I speak. It feels so right to have him hold my hand and it’s so warm and dizzying I nearly lose my mind.

“I’m glad I came too” 

He squeezes my hand one last time before he smiles, eyes sparkling a little.

“We’ll see each other soon, okay’?” 

I want to ask when but he’s already waving at me and walking away.

I watch him leave, a little dumbfoundedly and the emptiness in my hand is gaping. When he’s out of sight, I press the palm of my hand onto my chest to try and capture some of the warmth he’s left there.

\---

As I lie in bed that night I think about the fact that after all, I didn’t find out why he’d been able to recite that quote from The Picture of Dorian Gray.  
I found out so much about him, but that one thing completely slipped my mind.

How do I go about it? Do I slip in a quote during a conversation and hope he notices? Do I simply ask? How do I find out about his take on Christianity, what’s considered wrong and what right?  
It seemed he cares deeply for the children at the church school but I don’t think that’s necessarily connected to any religion. 

My heart lurches as I remember his honest words, confessed in a whisper, the way he pressed my hand and his eyes sparkled.  
I clutch my hand to my chest and I swear I can still feel his touch on it.

I like him so much.

With every heartbeat in my chest I grow more aware of those words, the meaning they hold. A strange, giddy feeling spreads in me. I wonder if he could ever like me back?

I shudder at the thought that he might be of the belief that it’s a sin for a man to like another man this way. 

After I’d confessed my inclination to Mary I’d had my fair share of crushes, so I’m no stranger to infatuation. But none of them ever left me feeling like this.  
I have never been infatuated with anyone as much as I am with Harry.  
At least I think it’s infatuation, I can hardly think of any other words to describe the feeling inside me. 

There’s an ache deep down, everything in me wants him, screams for his presence, those green eyes on me. I flush all over as I think about his collarbones, his hair, his bleeding wrist.

I’m suddenly way too hot and I kick off the covers to hop off the bed and sit at my desk. Now, when I take up the quill and set in onto the paper, it’s like the words flow out of me. Before I know it, I’m writing fervently, vigorously, sonnet over sonnet and many incoherent lines of poetry.  
I don’t want to miss a thing. I want to write down every little thing about him, etch it onto paper so it may live on forever and I’ll always be able to remember it.

\---

A few days later a letter arrives for me. The outside of it is unassuming, but as I open it a leaflet and a small piece of paper slip out. On the leaflet, there’s a printed picture of a man and a woman ballroom dancing and underneath it, an invite to a Soirée, hosted by some upper class twerp, that’s to be taking place next weekend.

I wrinkle my nose. I can already smell the stench of cigarettes and oversaturated perfumes that usually swell up in ballroom’s like these. As I take a look at the smaller piece of paper, I’ve already decided I was going to go. 

There’s a blue scribble on it and it says: “I can’t wait to see you again”. I must look like an idiot, grinning at a slip of paper in the middle of the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, please let me know with a Kudo :)
> 
> Also church schools are a real thing! They existed in the 19th century for working class children.


	4. Chapter 4

“Tell me again why I’m locked in a cab with you instead of being curled up at home reading Pride and Prejudice?” Mary flattens the silk fabric of her turquoise dress and shoots me an annoyed glance.

“I already told you, I can’t go alone. That’s a rule. A man should always arrive accompanied by a pretty lady” I cringe at every word, as if I suddenly cared for some dumb, old-fashioned rule. I know exactly Mary can see right through me.

“Sure thing, Louis” She leans over to grab my knee and points her finger at me.  
“In any case, you owe me one”

Mary looks unusually put together: she managed to stuff her unruly hair into a bun, some loose strands frame her face that I’m sure I’ve never seen painted with so much Makeup. In comparison to other middle class women hers is still fairly natural though: only her lips pop with a shiny red color and her eyebrows look a little darker than usual.   
Her cheeks are still littered with freckles and she looks so lovely and cheeky I can’t help but smile. “You look lovely”, I say, cocking my eyebrows.

“Oh shut it” She whacks my knee and falls back into her seat, crossing her arms with a pout.  
“I don’t need you to tell me that” 

But her reddened cheeks give her away and I don’t even try to stifle my grin as I turn my gaze to the window. 

Truthfully, I didn’t want to go to the Soirée alone. There’s no way I could go there and come out alive on my own. I need her mental support, or I’m certain I’d go crazy from all the meaningless conversations and mindless boasting that’s bound to take place. I don’t even know how much of Harry I’ll even be seeing, he’s part of the richer circle and thus inevitably very popular amongst the guests. A middle class guy like me won’t be able to get a hold of him easily. 

I feel ashamed to say that it would be enough for me to feel his presence around me because how pathetic is that, but it’s the truth. I’d stick around all evening anyway in the faint hope of getting to talk to him. I was so relieved when father let me and Mary go without much of a fuss, even though he couldn’t have opposed anyway. The letter was sent to me by the Styles, and he could hardly go against our sponsor’s back and make me miss the Soirée they’ve personally invited me to. 

The cab rolls to a halt and we get out, Mary’s hand in mine.   
It seems the Soirée is taking place in a public club rather than in a private house. There’s people mingling in front of the doors already, women with finely decorated bonnets and lush dresses linking arms with men that look twice their age. Their husbands are donning high black hats and neat waistcoats, some of them carrying walking sticks which only serve to show off their detailed carvings and crystals.

Inside, people are dressed in similar fashion, talking and laughing and pretending to have the time of their lives. Air thick with perfumes and smoke swallows us as we enter and I have to blink against the stench and the blinding lights. There’s at least three chandeliers fixed to a wooden ceiling, the vermillion walls are lined with brightly lit gas lamps.

“Jesus Christ, they oughta open up a window in here” Mary coughs into my ear, freeing herself from my hand. Before I can react, she steers from me toward a bunch of tables set with tons of sandwiches, sparkly bowls and chocolate in every shape and form.

“I’ll be over at the food stations darling, you just come and get me if you’re ready to leave” She blows me a kiss and that’s that; she’s disappeared into the crowd and I’m left standing amidst a sea of foreign faces with a heart that threatens to beat out of my chest anytime soon.

“Mary get back here”, I try to call, but it’s hardly audible over the chatter and the laughter that fills the room.   
I’m queasy already from how bad the air is and it feels like a million ants are crawling in my bloodstream, I’m so anxious to find Harry I can hardly think. 

I take a few tentative steps forward but when I’m shouldered and nearly thrown off my feet I keep standing where I am to peer around.

Just then, I see him, standing next to his mother. Our eyes meet almost simultaneously and I’m not sure if I only imagine the look of relief washing over his face as he spots me. 

He looks breathtaking, clad in an onyx colored suit, and near his tie a green brooch is fastened that glimmers in the light.  
I don’t know what else to do so I just smile, and after he’s whispered something to Mrs. Styles next to him, she waves me over eagerly.

I try to calm my raging heartbeat as I draw nearer to them. How does he manage to look even better each time I see him?

They are standing a few metres away from me, in a circle of tittering upper class ladies that are immediately all over me. 

“So that’s the future holder of Tomlinson’s fashion industries, isn’t it?”

“He does look much younger than I expected”

“Indeed, he looks like my son”

“But Laurie your son is twelve!”

They burst into laughter before Mrs. Styles silences them with two outstretched hands.

“Now, now ladies let’s calm ourselves.” She takes my hand and squeezes it firmly. For some reason, I didn’t expect her frail hand to hold so much strength in it. 

“How are you Louis? I do hope you’re well. Are you looking forward to witnessing my son’s exquisite piano play?” 

Harry is flushing up to his hairline while I nearly choke on my own spit. 

“Well, I wasn’t- I wasn’t quite aware he played the piano”, I stutter. 

“Oh no he is a phenomenal player, isn’t he girls?” The ladies nod enthusiastically, I can feel the wind their fans produce as they shake in unison.

“I’m flattered but I’m really not that great I assure you” Harry scratches his neck and gives a smile. 

His smile seems to come so easily to him, but I notice for the first time how stiff it is, and how it doesn’t reach his eyes at all. Normally, they’d sparkle like fresh morning dew on a summer day. And no, that isn’t a poetic overstatement on my part.   
It’s unnecessary to say that he once again surprised me with the fact that he can even play the bleeding piano, but as I look at him more closely, I can’t help but think that there’s something off about him today. He doesn’t hold himself as confidently as usual and his eyes dart around the room as if he’s looking for a place to run off to. 

“Yes you are honey, don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t raise you to be so modest” Mrs. Styles links her arm with Harry’s.

“Stop it mother, I’m getting flustered” He tries to say nonchalantly, but his voice falters in the end. He starts fiddling with his brooch and I can see that his hands are trembling.

“Well I’m allowed to boast with my talented son, aren’t I? Also why didn’t you tell Louis you played the piano, dear? He seemed so surprised to hear about it”

“He didn’t ask”, Harry snaps abruptly and his hand wanders from the brooch to his collar as he tries to loosen it. When it doesn’t budge, his brow creases imperceptibly. “It seemed to have slipped my mind, I’m sorry mother”

He goes for his collar again but once more, he doesn’t get the tie to loosen and clears his throat instead. Something is definitely wrong with him. I feel uneasiness swell up in me and I desperately wish it was just the two of us, without this much noise and without that many pairs of eyes set on him.

“I guess we can’t turn back time now, can we. But Louis, do stay for another hour. Harry will be playing then.” 

At that, Harry grows pale as a bed sheet. He’s still trying to undo his collar but his hands are shaking too much and he gets more irritated by the second until he rips his arm from his mother and turns on his heel.

“I have to visit the bathroom, mother. I’ll be right back”, he caws and starts shouldering his way through the crowd. His mother, as well as her girlfriends, are left gaping after him dumbfoundedly. 

“Don’t- don’t be long, son” Mrs. Styles calls, but I almost don’t hear her anymore. I dive after Harry, trying desperately not to lose him in the sea of faces. What on earth is wrong with him? I shoulder people, elbow them, and I’m sure I even kick some shins. I couldn’t care less though. I run after him through a wooden door into the bathroom, the sour stench of urine almost knocking me out.

A wheeze comes from the last stall, and my heart’s hammering as I enter it, stumbling over my own feet.  
On the ground there’s Harry, half-sitting, half-cowering, with his hands clenched around his tie and tugging at it fruitlessly. He looks up at me and his gaze is so helpless my stomach clenches. His face is wet and his lips have gone blue.

“Harry, Harry what’s wrong, I stammer and fall to the ground next to him.

“Louis I- I can’t breathe”, he manages to spit out and it’s then that I simply start working on instinct. I’ve never seen anyone in a state like this, and I’m afraid if I don’t do anything soon, he might suffocate.

Unlike his, my fingers aren’t trembling so it’s easy for me to loosen his tie. I pull it out of his suit to help him remove his jacket and he’s shaking so badly I have to guide his arms out of the sleeves for him. I also unbutton the first few buttons on his shirt, so his neck area is completely free of any clothing. 

I flush guiltily, both from how worried I am and also from the fact that I’ve never seen so much of his milky skin before. 

Now that there’s no restrictions, he seems to be able to breathe better and without thinking, I take his hand into mine. His fingers are cold against my heated palm.

“Breathe Harry. You need to breathe more deeply” I try to say as softly as possible. With my other hand, I begin stroking his back.

And that’s how we stay for a while. He’s crushing my hand while I stroke his clammy backside. I’m talking to him and I’m not sure about what exactly, I figure the most important thing is, that it sounds calming to him. 

After a few minutes, he slumps over and puts his head on my shoulder.

“Thank you”, he mumbles and I don’t think I’ve ever been more relieved to hear anyone’s voice.

“No need to thank me”, I say in a voice that comes out more jittery than I intend it to.  
I’m aware it may be time to let go of his hand now, but he’s hasn’t yet so I don’t either. 

“Yes there is” He lifts his gaze to meet mine and I can see that exhaustion is written all over him. His cheek is pink from where it was pressed to my shoulder, and under his eyes lie deep shadows. His fine brown hair is all tangled up. 

“I couldn’t breathe and you helped me calm down enough for me to able to, so thank you for that” He smiles and it’s tired but genuine, making his eyes sparkle. My heart stumbles as I notice how close his face is to mine. 

“You’re welcome, it wasn’t any trouble”

He chuckles at that. “I usually don’t get this nervous, you know? I don’t know what happened there”

“I guess nobody’s perfect”, I say and hope that my lopsided smile doesn’t come across as offensive.

He doesn’t reply, simply looks at me. I grow hot under his gaze and my heart starts thumping in overdrive, so I let go of his hand and stand up abruptly.

“Do you- Do you want me to help you get dressed?” It’s a stupid question, but I’ve blurted it out before I can think about it. 

“No thanks. I think I’ll be fine on my own this time” He smiles at me again from where he’s still sat on the ground, and he does it so sweetly, so gently, I wish I could just kiss him.

\---

I didn’t feel good about leaving Harry behind after what happened, but he assured me multiple times that he was feeling better. Before I left however, I told him to meet me outside after his piano recital.  
I want to see him off at least, given I’ve no idea when I’ll be able to see him again.   
The shock of having witnessed him in such a precarious state still sits deep in my bones. 

He’s set to play the piano in a few minutes, which is why I’m stuck anxiously tapping my feet, surrounded by faces that all look the same to me. Unfortunately, Mary is nowhere to be seen and I’m beginning to be amazed by just how much food is able fit into such a petite person.

Then, there’s a collateral gasp running through the crowd and my gaze is drawn forward to the stage Harry is stepping on. It’s not really a stage: just a few wooden boards stacked against the back wall which barely fit the piano. 

What the stage lacks in grandeur though, Harry makes up for in grace. He’s back to his usual confident self, beaming at the crowd with his perfect smile set in place.

Around me, people’s expressions mirror those of the children at church school: They’re filled to the brim with wonder and adoration for him. I’ve noticed it back in the classroom and it’s even more obvious now: Harry has a way of drawing people’s eyes to him, not just because of his looks but because of his aura, his gleaming presence. He’s able to put people under his spell, and make them lose themselves for a time to notice only him. 

When he starts playing, I am left breathless.

His play is entrancing, incandescent and I’m falling again, pitilessly. 

The first song reminds me of spring, its melody so lovely I start seeing visions manifest in front of my eyes: rose petals, lilies and sunflowers floating softly to the ground, twirling around me in a dance that nearly makes me giggle. It sounds like a promise, a promise for unabashed happiness and that lovely sunshine we all crave in our darkest times. 

When it’s over, I have to blink several times and shake my head to make sure it was really just a vision. The crowd is going ecstatic, shouting words of praise and clapping so loudly it feels like the ceiling may cave in over us.

There was only one song Harry was supposed to play but since the crowd is so enraptured it seems he decides to play a second one. He sits back to the piano and as soon as his fingers hit the keys, an atmosphere of gloominess seizes the room.  
It’s instant and it’s so strong everyone is momentarily paralyzed by it, gazing at the one who’s producing those wondrous, wistful sounds. 

Even from where I’m standing I can see the look in his eyes; that sorrowful, pained expression that I’ve already witnessed twice on him. Now it seems he’s pouring all of his pain into the melody, all his sorrows and his afflictions, and somehow the notes convey it better than words ever could.  
I understand him, in a way I’ve never done before and I feel tears pricking at the back of my eyes from how strong the feeling is.  
He looks almost tragic in that moment, like an actor on an ancient stage, as the light catches his hair at just the right moment. 

It’s then that our eyes meet, and I swear my blood is set aglow.   
I have never ached so deeply for Harry, it’s like every cell in my body is burning with the desire to be close to him.

I want to find out what he feels like, pressed close to me.

I want to kiss those rosy lips of his so badly (perhaps they’ll taste of honey?)

I want to gaze into his eyes so deeply I may find the secrets of the universe in them.

There’s the electricity again, the undercurrent of static that makes me tingle all over and I wonder: does he feel it too? Do you feel this too, this wonderful feeling? I want to scream, but my throat is tied and he’s still looking at me and it’s all so much that I have to tear my gaze away from him. 

I notice that I’m heaving, and a tear has rolled down the side of my face.


	5. Chapter 5

After Harry was finished, I disappeared into the crowd to look for Mary. I found her eventually, next to a tray of cream cakes. She was reluctant to leave the sweets behind but I pulled her along with me, muttering something about how it was indispensable we wait outside. 

Despite it already being April it’s still fairly chilly so I told Mary to go home and warm herself up. She didn’t want to leave me alone, but as the cold crept up the thin fabric of her dress, she gave in. 

Now I’m left waiting alone, on the sidewalk next to the ballroom, blowing on my hands and waiting desperately for Harry. Even though I expected it, I didn’t think he was going to be held up for so long. I can imagine him having to shake every admirers hand obediently, answering their tedious questions with a smile that is not to falter.

As for my mental state, I still feel ransacked from what I’ve experienced. I’m certain I’ve never gone through anything like it.  
It seems this was one of those experiences you have once in a lifetime, that stay with you until your dying breath and that change you in ways you’re not aware of at first but later on realize have fundamentally changed the course of your life. 

I don’t notice I’m shaking before someone puts a jacket around my shoulders. 

“Harry”, I gasp upon whipping my head around to find his gaze. 

“I borrowed it from my mother, I hope you don’t mind the frills?”   
He smiles at me lopsidedly and my heartbeat quickens. If it’s possible, he looks even more tired than earlier, but his smile makes his eyes sparkle and that’s how I know he must be well.

I shake my head weakly.

“Listen, I need to tell you something. Would you mind following me?”

“Follow you? Can’t you just say it here?”

“No I- I’ve got a specific place in mind where I want to tell you”

Harry casts his gaze downward and blushes. A few hazelnut strands of hair fall into his eyes and I don’t know how I could ever refuse that. Harry wants to tell me something alone, in a specific place he’s got in mind. How perfect is that? I can feel my own cheeks redden as I accept his invitation.

“Alright then, I’ll follow you”

Our way leads us down a couple of empty, lamp-lit streets at first. There’s only some cats and an occasional drunkard that tumble into our path, but we dodge them and walk on.   
Then, the scenery changes. Broad streets change into more narrow, darker alleys, a sickly smell creeps into my senses and since there aren’t many street lights, the only light illuminating us is that of the pale moon. 

We’re in the East End. The realization makes me draw nearer to Harry and despite my being confused, I don’t want to say anything in fear of ruining the moment. Even though there are a lot more sounds - people talking, fighting, some children screaming - I can feel that Harry’s presence makes a peaceful feeling wash over me. I should probably be frightened but I feel safe next to him, like nothing could hurt me. As we walk more closely, our elbows touch and our hands brush occasionally which makes sparks fly up my arm. I lose myself momentarily in the feeling and I don’t notice we’ve reached All Saints before Harry takes a halt. 

“Here we are”, he whispers.   
I blink up to him and I can see his how the moon lights up his face. He pats both his coat pockets and then reaches inside his right one to retrieve a small, iron key. 

“Why on earth do you have a key to this church?” I must sound bewildered, for Harry chuckles awkwardly.

“Well my family sponsored this church so- I kind of own it”

I’m pretty sure my jaw drops to the floor, as I watch him put the key into the hole and turn it with a squeaky sound. He presses the handle, and the wooden doors open.

“You know those awful charity actions where rich people invite the press to show everyone how kind and thoughtful they are? I mean, what’s it going to do for the people here to have a church? The money would have been better spent buying bags of flour and distributing them”

I want to tell him that he’s absolutely right, but I can’t because I’m so beyond mesmerized by the inside of the church. Though unassuming on the outside, it’s stunning in here.  
It’s lucky it’s full moon for the light is so strong it filters through the finely decorated windows and shines on the abnormal amount of gold that’s everywhere - gilded statues of saints with their hands folded, white angels of marble and their delicate wings of gold - and towering over it all a massive gilded cross. 

“It’s beautiful”, I gasp through my wide open mouth.

“It is” 

Harry closes the door behind us and we step between rows of pews toward the altar.   
“It’s my favorite place. I love coming here when everything gets too hectic at home” 

I’m marvelling at the altar that’s gilded finely like the rest of the church, when it hits me what Harry said. 

“So does what happened today often take place?” 

He shakes his head, so vigorously I almost regret having asked. I admit, he looks really uncomfortable talking about it. It must be a sensitive topic to him. But then again, I imagine I'd be uneasy as well talking about it with the person who’s seen me in that helpless state. 

“No, that’s only the second time. I’m sorry you had to witness it”

“Don’t mind it, it was absolutely no trouble. I’m just glad you’re okay” I say, and it’s nothing but the truth. Harry looks up at me through a curtain of brown strands and smiles sweetly. 

“It’s only thanks to you” He draws nearer, taking both my hands into his and guiding us to sit into the first row of pews. The wood is cold and hard, the opposite to his hands- warm and soft in mine. My heart is going havoc inside my rib cage. His face is suddenly so close.

“I need to tell you something”, he says quietly and I can feel everything in me seize up. I’ve been thinking this whole time about what on earth it is he’d want to talk to me about - in All Saints out of all places - but I haven’t been able to come up with anything. I try not to let my breathing falter as I nod, in hopes of him continuing. 

Harry’s gaze flickers to our interlocked hands, seemingly mustering up his courage to talk. Then he looks at me, with the pinkest blush I’ve ever seen on him, and his thumbs push into my palms.

“I really like you, Louis. And I know this is silly because we’ve only known each other for such a short time, but I mean it. I’m drawn to you in so many ways and I have no explanation for it” He looks down again, swallows, and meets my eyes again.

“Today, when I was playing the piano did you feel it too? The electricity?”

My neck nearly breaks as I nod desperately. 

“It was the same feeling as when we first met wasn’t it?” My voice is quivering. His gaze lingers on me, and it feels like I’m being swallowed up by those green eyes of his, it’s so intense I feel my body tingle all over. We’re conjuring up the electricity again, slowly at first but then it’s burning, taking me over like wildfire. 

“Yes. Yes, exactly”, Harry whispers. His grip on my hands tightens and his eyes flicker down to my lips. 

For a mad second I think he may kiss me. 

In the next, his lips are on mine. 

The warm press of his lips feels even better than I could have ever imagined it.   
It is like the first sip of water when you’re very thirsty. You didn’t even realize you were thirsty, but then the cool water smooths down your throat and suddenly you’re so desperate you’re sucking on the liquid, trying to get as much of it down as possible.

It’s like that with him; I can tell the exact second he realizes it too- how right, how heavenly this feels. 

The jacket slides down my shoulders as I lift a hand to put it to his cheek. He tilts his head in response, and the kiss deepens.   
The world around us goes hazy, and it’s just Harry and me finally, finally kissing.

We kiss for what feels like ages. We’ve scooted closer together so we’re almost on top of each other, one of my hands is in his fine hair and one of his rests warm on my neck. 

The wet drag and pull of his lips is so addicting, so dizzying, it seems to squelch the burning ache for him in me and kindle it anew at the same time.  
Then, Harry moans. It’s soft and quiet but it’s a moan and I have to break our kiss. I didn’t even realize I was running out of air until I’m gasping for it.

He is gasping too, hair mussed up and flushed all over and i imagine I look similar. But the reddest part of his face are undoubtedly his lips, which must tingle just as much as mine. 

“Harry”, I utter between gasps. “I like you too, so much”   
I realized I hadn’t admitted it yet, and I wanted to tell him too, because I still can’t believe that he actually told me he liked me.

The only answer I get is his warm breath on the side of my cheek but it’s enough because in the next second we’re kissing again.

Over our heads the bells are tolling and the saints are crossing their holy hands but we kiss as if the night knew no end. 

\---

The next month feels like a daze to me. Nothing seems very real except Harry, every waking thought of mine is consumed by Harry and Harry only. I can’t sleep, I can’t choke down on one bite of food, for my stomach is constantly filled with those tingly butterflies and in my limbs sits the burning ache to be close to him. It’s ever growing and never satisfied: 

We steal secret kisses every chance we get, under the pretense of studying together we lock ourselves into his study room on sunny afternoons and kiss the day away, snogging under the covers until we have to come up for fresh air.

I visit him every Sunday for church school, and every time we lock the doors to All Saints and kiss in that first row of pews where we confessed to each other, tangled up in each other and snogging until we’re nearly burning up, only seperating to gasp for air and calm our warm, red lips.

My nights are filled with dreams of him - his green eyes, his hair, the dangly crystals he wears around his neck. Sometimes I dream of us going further than we have and I wake up flushed and red all over. 

Other than kiss ourselves silly, we’ve also started writing each other letters. Of course we can’t send them in the regular mail, we stuff it into each other’s trousers or shirts and find them when we undress for the night, gliding to the ground like secret promises. They’re corny and not very coherent, most of it lovesick ramble that could churn one’s stomach. I quite admit my poetic talent seems to leave me when it comes to writing to Harry - it turns out writing poems about him is much different than writing to him, trying to put all the feeling I have for him into words. 

My dear Harry

I hope you know how very precious you are to me- I’m sure I’ve never laid eyes on anything quite as lovely as you.

Your eyes are a dream of perfect jade green and I could get lost in them for hours, your lips are as soft as rose petals and as sweet as honey; I’ll never get enough of them.

I’m already burning up with the anticipation to see you again in the morrow, I shall lose no second to sleep so I can think of only you. 

Yours dearly, 

Louis

Dear Louis

I just want to kiss and kiss you until the sun comes up and sets again. We’ll let the world go by while we’re together, unencumbered by it all just kissing and kissing.

With you I feel like nothing can touch me, those dark clouds that often reside in me are pierced by the rays of sunlight you emit for me.   
God, even though you’ve left minutes ago I already miss you. I wish I could fall asleep next to you, and wake up gazing into your beautiful blue eyes. Did you know they’re not always blue? Sometimes, when the sunlight catches them just right, they seem almost silver. I’ll make sure to tell it to you in person next time I see you.

I’ve another thing I wanted to tell you. Well it’s more of a question but I guess that doesn’t really matter. My uncle, who owns quite mansion in the countryside, has invited me over for next weekend and I know he wouldn’t mind it if I brought some company. What do you say we escape the hustle of London for a bit and sleep together in the flowery meadows? Perhaps we could even spot some butterflies? 

Yours dearly, 

Harry

\---

I’m clutching Harry’s latest letter, as I try to calm my fluttering nerves. I’m not usually this nervous before talking to Mary and I’ve confessed my inclination to her long ago but this is different.   
I don’t want to lie to her anymore. I know she won’t tell on my father about me, but she’ll start asking question if I request to go to the countryside with the son of our sponsor - as far as she’s aware - some random person I’ve met nearly a month ago. I’ve been making up excuses all this time and it’s been eating away at me. Usually, there are no secrets between Mary and me and the fact that she doesn’t know about Harry weighs heavy on me. It feels right to tell her now that it’s been a few weeks.

It’s just Mary, I try to tell myself as I press the handle to her door.

Her room isn’t as tall as mine, but similarly furnished - wooden nightstand with a small, flickering gas lamp and many books scattered across the floor. She’s curled up by the headboard of her bed, reading intently in what I presume to be another edition of Pride and Prejudice. 

I clear my throat. She doesn’t react, not even lifting her head an inch. I roll my eyes inwardly, and knock on the door instead.

At that, Mary startles, book tumbling to the ground.   
“What on God’s green-” she pauses when she spots me. Her eyes are glittering in the dim light and her mop of curls is in such a disarray I can barely stifle a chuckle.

“Well if that isn’t the young gentleman. Louis, what do you want?”

“I kind of need to talk to you” I close the door behind me but I’m unsure what to do next so I just stand there a little awkwardly. She must sense the tension for she scoots over to the side of her bed and pats the space next to her. 

“Come here. This better be important though, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy were just looking at each other romantically 30 feet apart”

“And who would want to miss that” I say, flopping down onto her bed. The mattress gives an angry squeak. Joking with her about Pride and Prejudice almost feels like the olden days, when we used to each read a book every month and by the end of it have a lengthy discussion on which scene was the raunchiest and which ones almost made us fall asleep with our eyes open. 

“Is this about the dozens of mysterious outings you’ve been having lately?” She asks suddenly and my blood runs cold.

“You- you know about them?”

“Please Louis, you don’t have any friends. There’s only so many coffees one might have alone on a weekday” Her eyes narrow, but I can see the small smile that plays around her lips.

“Rude”, I whisper, pulling my legs up so I can prop my chin on them. Now or never, I think. Either I tell her now or you’ll continue carry this secret on your shoulders. 

“Do you know Harry? Harry Styles?” I look at her sideways and a glimmer of recognition flits over her face. She nods slowly.

“I’ve kind of been visiting him. And well- snogging him” 

I expected her to do anything- laugh at me, pat me on the back somewhat proudly, scream- but I did not image her nodding along absentmindedly. 

“You’re not surprised?”

“I’m not daft Louis. I saw the way you were looking at him when he was playing the piano.It was at the Soirée you pulled me along for, wasn’t it? You looked at him like he hung the bloody stars.” Her voice is gentle and she grins at me but I still flush furiously. 

“I didn’t know you were looking at me, God this is so embarrassing” 

“It’s not”, she chuckles. “Now, tell me what you really came here for, because it’s hardly just about admitting your crush”

I can sense the slightly accusatory tone in her voice and smile faintly. 

“Yeah about that, I’m truly sorry. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you.”

“It’s fine”, she waves off but I know it’s not. I don’t want to dwell on it, so I get to the point, in hopes of this situation being over as quickly as possible and us being able to go right back to jesting and slapping each other’s butts.

“We’ve been writing letters to each other and he’s asked me to go to the countryside with him. Apparently his uncle owns some big mansion there”

I put my hand over the pocket of my trousers, feeling the outline of the paper. 

“I see. And I guess you want me to cover for you?” 

Nodding, I avoid her gaze. 

“I guess I can do that, I’ll tell him it’s for some preparation for Oxford. He’s too much of a Philistine to question it, and he probably won’t mind anyway”

She doesn’t say it but I know what she’s thinking - He won’t mind not having you around.   
I ignore the pang my heart gives. I’ve decided long ago not to let my father’s feelings toward me - or rather lack thereof - have an impact on me. 

I flinch as Mary takes my hands into hers. They’re unusually cold. Suddenly her face is very close to me, her smile has been swapped with a serious gaze that’s enunciating the small wrinkles next to her eyes. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?”, she asks then.

My brow furrows, and I look at her questioningly. 

“You feel deeply Louis. More so than others”, she continues, quietly “It’s one of the things you have from your mother and it’s always a quality I’ve admired greatly in the both of you”

A quality from my mother. What on earth is up with her? I’ve seldom felt uneasy with Mary but now I feel queasiness settle in me. I’d like to take back my hands but she holds them tightly. 

“I fear once you’ve given your heart away, you won’t be able to get it back so easily. I’m afraid, you may end up being the one getting hurt if you’re rushing into things”

Rushing into things? The cogs in my heads spin in overdrive as I think about what reply I could possibly give her.

“We’re not rushing into anything”, I say weakly, “I really like Harry and I know he feels the same about me… he told me” This thing between Harry and me is still so new and bright, it’s barely begun, and I haven’t wasted one thought on whether it would ever end. 

Mary lets go of my hands then, and folding a scrubby curl behind her ear, leans back onto her headboard. She seems satisfied enough with my answer, and the smile creeps back onto her face. 

“Then all is well. I’m just worried about you, that’s all. I do hope you have fun though, you know how wonderful the countryside is in spring” I blink at her, and as she doesn’t say anything else, I get up. 

“Could you please give me my book back? It fell to the ground when you came in” She cocks her brows at me and I stoop to pick up Pride and Prejudice and hand it back to her.   
“Better brace yourself for some juicy hand holding next”, I try a joke and I’m so relieved as Mary laughs.

“I will, goodnight Louis”

Even though Mary’s one of my favorite people in the world, for once I can’t wait to get out of her presence. 

“Night”

In the hall between her room and mine I pass a wooden dresser, one of the only pieces of furniture left in the house. Atop of it, there’s a picture frame and inside, a small picture of a woman.  
I grab it and plop down along the wall to gaze at it.

The woman has the same brown, curly hair as me and her smile looks goofy. My mum.

It’s still odd when I hear Mary talk about her, even though she’s already told me so many stories about her.  
The one that’s stuck with me the clearest is the one of how my parents met, moved into this house together and how my mum eventually passed away. 

I’ve heard the story a thousand times: My father had inherited his business and had taken to the country to find himself a beautiful girl. He’d been handsome and charming, back then when his confidence hadn’t tipped over into masochism. I was told that despite his temper he loved my mother dearly, and when Mary came into the picture they were a happy, loving couple, expecting their first child. 

All was going well for them, my father’s company flourished, they were able to afford their dream house and get married.

Then I came along.

The labour had been strenuous and painful, Mary had called many doctors but none of them could figure out what was wrong. There was so, so much blood and as the baby finally slipped out, crying miserably, Mary could just about place it on my mother’s chest before she passed - with a smile, apparently, even though I can hardly believe it.   
I know I wouldn’t be able to smile if the cause for my death were put on top of me, right when I was dying anyway. 

I clutch the frame, fighting the tightness in my throat.

When I look at her, I can’t help but feel detachment. This woman had given her life for me, and all I have of her are my blue eyes and one, pale picture. Once a bright, young woman, taken down in her prime by her own son.

I killed my mother and there’s nothing I can ever do to change it. 

Father became bitter after her death. He didn’t even want to look at me, he drowned himself in his work and some cheap alcohol, leaving Mary to nurse me and stop me from crying. It’s been like that since.   
I can’t remember my father ever being affectionate toward me, and I’ve wondered so many times what I did to deserve this treatment. As a child I didn’t understand why I had to be afraid of my father but as I grew I came to understand that his hatred for me wasn’t completely unjustified. 

I guess he never forgave me for taking the love of his life from him and I don’t blame him. I blame him for a lot of things, but not for hating me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hii!  
> Thank you so much for reading until now. If you've liked it so far, please do leave a Kudo or a comment, they make me so happy :)  
> Also if you have any criticism don't hesitate to let me know in the comments as well.  
> Tbh, I've got this whole story planned out but I'm really not sure whether it's worth continuing it. Would anyone read it if I continued? I think in the next chapter, Harry and Louis would spend a lot of time kissing in some flowery meadows.
> 
> Anyways have a lovely day!


End file.
